Holiday
by Lady Kate
Summary: Hank and Bobby spend a summer day goofing off poolside with Betsy and Warren.


Disclaimer: Everybody here belongs to Marvel; there is no infringement intended and no money in my bank account, so don't sue.

Author's Notes/Comments/Lame Excuses: This bit of silliness was written about seven months ago when I was looking forward to summer weather, and I had this idea that I'd post it in the summer. So you see just how useless good intentions are. Despite languishing on my PC for so long, the story hasn't changed much since it was written, and even at that time, I'd made no attempt whatsoever to fit it in with current continuity. :) P.S. Bobby is right - don't eat or drink for an hour before swimming.

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Holiday

by Lady Kate

* * *

"Here you go, Hank." Rogue appeared in the doorway with an armful of mail and a mischievous look on her face. "Same old, same old. Scientific journals, news mags, an' – oh, what's this?" She waved the small gold-edged envelope about playfully. "Mr. Henry McCoy. Special delivery. No return address. An' marked Con-fi-den-tial! You gone an' got yourself another sweetie, Hank?"

"While it is undeniably true that many's the lady who would love to snare the beautiful blue Beast," he replied with a grin, snatching the envelope away from Rogue, "alas, Trish is away on assignment, and I under strict orders to ignore summons from other single ladies." He set the envelope down beside him, returning to the microscope.

Rogue lingered in the doorway. "You gonna open that?"

"Eventually." He gave her an amused glance, then, thinking better of it, quickly placed the envelope in his pocket. "It is at moments such as these that I am grateful none of our fellow mutants-in-residence has the ability to peer into unopened mail."

"Now why didn't ah think of that? Ah wonder if Jean might be able to do that. Read telepathic vibes, y'know? An' then tell us where it came from... When she gets back from vacation, ah'm gonna ask her." She wandered off, sorting through the rest of the mail, still muttering to herself. "Ah'll bet Remy coulda got it open without anyone knowin' any better... Next time..."

Once assured that she had well and truly departed, Hank pulled out the envelope, regarding it with some puzzlement. Ripping it open, he pulled out a small card, on which was written "Tomorrow, Death is taking a holiday, and wonders if Beast and Iceman might be persuaded to join in." On the back was a note that transportation would be waiting for them at the airport.

With a grin, Hank slapped the intercom to Bobby's room. "Bobby-boy, it looks like we have a Code Blue."

* * *

The afternoon sun was spectacularly bright, burning brilliantly high overhead in a cloudless sky and heating the desert air to a lung-scorching level.

Warren Worthington was waiting as the helicopter touched down on the landing pad of his mountain-side home. Hank leaped out of the helicopter and bounded over, with Bobby following only a few steps behind. "Warren, we received your most gracious invitation and hastened here as far as modern transport would allow—"

"—and it was very hot," Bobby interjected helpfully. "The airplane part of the trip was okay, but next time send an air-conditioned helicopter."

"Ignore my churlish sidekick — he iced up five minutes into the flight and was feeling no pain. I, on the other hand—"

"Sidekick!" Bobby sputtered incredulously.

Warren laughed, "Well, thanks for making the sacrifice. It's good to have you."

"With an invitation like that, how could we refuse?"

With a lopsided smile, Warren explained, "That was Betsy's idea. Apparently it's a reference to some old movie she'd seen. I'm not in the habit of signing anything as 'Death' any more, but she thought it would be funny."

"Betsy has a sense of humor?" Bobby wondered, only partly tongue-in-cheek, earning a quick jab in the ribs from Hank.

Warren either didn't catch the remark or chose to ignore it, instead waving the helicopter off, then led the two into the house. "Did you two have any problems getting away?"

"As a matter of fact, your invitation caught Rogue's eye, which was a minor difficulty in itself. Officially I'm... er... on a fact-finding mission to inspect the florae and faunae of this region, and Bobby accompanied me for... for... protection."

Warren grimaced. "Scott bought **that**?!"

Bobby snickered. "No, that was just Hank's lame-o attempt at humor. Keep your day job, pal!" he gibed. Hank looked miffed. "Actually, Scott and Jean took off and won't be back until after the weekend. We waited until they left and then told Logan that 'something came up'. He always uses that one on us whenever he wants to wander off to Madripoor or where-ever."

"Well, try not to go back with a tan, and maybe no one will ask," Warren chuckled. "The guest rooms are upstairs — pick whichever one you want. I'll be outside by the pool with Betsy. We'll be barbecuing at five or six-ish, and that's pretty much all that we've got on the day's agenda."

"Sounds wondrous! Inform the lady that we shan't be more than a moment in joining you!" Hank exclaimed, already bounding up the stairs three at a time. Bobby scrambled madly after him, trying to elbow him out of the way in the race for the best guest room.

* * *

"Ms. Braddock, as always, you are a sight to delight the eyes."

"Why thank you, Hank."

"Yeah, Betsy," Bobby chimed in, "you sure know how to wear a bikini."

"A little less elegant than Hank's compliment," she laughed, "although I suppose the sentiment is the same."

Never one to linger over the formalities, Bobby let out a bloodcurdling shriek of "Geronimooooo!!" and leaped into the pool with much waving of arms and a spectacularly messy splash. "Oh, man, this is great! Come on in, you guys! It's perfect. I thought I was gonna melt out there."

"A laudable fear for a man of ice," Hank remarked flippantly, then cannon-balled into the water, sending up a tidal wave of water that quickly overtook Bobby.

"Gah!!" Bobby sputtered when he found air again. "Watch it, furball!"

"Amateurs," Betsy dismissed with a smile, standing beside Warren at the poolside.

"Going to show them how it should be done?"

"Of course." She gave him a quick kiss, then sternly instructed the two in the pool to "Watch and learn!" Stepping onto the diving board, she executed a simple overhead dive, only a tiny splash rising as she dove into the water.

"Show off! She cheated! She used her... her ninja... whats-its..."

"If by 'whats-its' you mean balance and coordination," Hank clarified, "then yes, she did have an unfair advantage over you, Bobby."

"Why does everyone always pick on me?" Bobby wondered.

"Because it's so easy to do!" Hank slapped at the water with the flat of his hand, sending a plume of water squarely into Bobby's face. Bobby splashed back, less efficiently, but with equal enthusiasm.

Swimming past the water fight, Betsy heaved herself out of the water and onto one of the floating lounge chairs, giving Bobby a pleasant eyeful in the process. "Hey, Warren, when you sent out the invites, I thought you said no thongs!" he yelled, ignoring the evil eye Betsy turned on him.

"I said no thongs on **you**, Bobby."

"Ugh," Hank shuddered in mock horror. "That does bring a dreadful image to mind!"

"Oh shut up, Hank," Bobby replied good-naturedly. "I don't see anyone asking you to be the Speedo's poster boy."

"Actually, I was forced to decline their most generous offer, due to my hectic schedule—"

"Sure, Hank, sure."

"Ah, the refreshment wagon approacheth! Thank you, kind sir," Hank offered, quickly paddling to the side of the pool to retrieve the drink Warren was offering. "I shall take one to the fair lady, as well."

"Hey!" Bobby sputtered indignantly. "Isn't this against pool safety regulations? I thought you weren't supposed to swim for an hour after eating or drinking, or something like that."

"Bobby," Warren said patiently, "you spend your days dodging Sentinels, alien hordes and numerous mutant-hating mobs, not to mention beating back the occasional 'evil mutant'. If you get a stomach cramp, I'm sure that one of us here will be able to save you."

"Well... okay. But if there is some emergency, I don't want Hank giving me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation."

"Do Not Resuscitate," Betsy repeated. "Got it."

"That's **not** what I said—"

"I believe Elisabeth is simply stating her intention to opt out of your rescue if it requires any mouth-to-mouth assistance," Hank supplied helpfully.

"Correct," she replied airily.

Bobby glanced over at Warren, who shrugged apologetically. "Sorry, Bobby, but you really aren't my type either."

"Oh that's just great. With friends like this," he muttered, "who needs super-villains?" Still, the day was hot, and neither Betsy or Hank seemed to be suffering any aftereffects, so Bobby warily collected his own drink from Warren, but stayed close to the poolside, just in case. "Wow, that's weird," Bobby realized abruptly. "I'm being waited on by a Worthington. Don't you have people to do that for you?"

Warren chuckled, shaking his head. "Out here, it's just you, me, Hank and Betsy. I don't have any hired help lurking indoors. That's the whole point of 'getting away from it all'."

"Yeah, well, it's making me nervous. We can look after ourselves. Stop mucking around out there and get in the pool! The water's perfect!"

Warren just shrugged, continuing to root through the drinks in the cooler.

"You're dressed to go swimming," Bobby pointed out. "And, knowing you, those swimming trunks probably cost more than my car!"

"It seemed the appropriate attire for the day," he smiled, without confirming or denying Bobby's estimation of the cost, "but actually, I'm not much for pools."

"Oh, come on!" He lunged out of the pool, making a grab for Warren's ankle, but his friend fluttered just out of reach. "I'm sure I can remember you flapping around in pools before. Way way back in our youthful days... I think you stole one of my girlfriends at one of your pool parties... Terri Sue, if I remember."

Warren glanced ever so slightly towards Betsy, and replied, "That was before..." obviously uncomfortable with the subject.

For a moment, Bobby wasn't sure whether the 'before' was referring to Terri-Sue-of-distant-memory or just the whole topic of swimming, but quickly realized that referring to past girlfriends, stolen or not, in front of Betsy was probably a faux pas.

Betsy chimed in decisively, "You do **not** want him in the pool. He's as graceful as a demented turkey. The wings start flapping insanely and water sprays in every imaginable direction."

Warren seemed exasperated by Betsy's description, but confined himself to commenting, "I'm not a swimming kind of bird."

Bobby snickered, quickly picking up on the new topic. "Too bad! If you were, you could have been Duck-Boy or Lucky Duck or something like that! Maybe even Loosey-Goosey. Or is it Goosey-Loosey? Of course, that would work better if you were a girl and your name was Lucy—"

To which, Warren replied, "Shut up, Snowball."

"Really, Bobby," Betsy demurred, "that was unkind—"

"Not to mention rambling and unfocused!" Hank interjected.

"—after all, Warren has his dignity," Betsy continued, somehow managing to not meet her lover's very suspicious gaze as she spoke, "and, duck-like qualities or not, I can't imagine him with a name like Duck-Boy. I think he'd much prefer to be called 'Mr. Quackers'."

Warren Worthington considered that even if he had some small shreds of dignity left, he was going to have a difficult time salvaging it now. The three friends in the pool dissolved into raucous laughter, Bobby high-fiving Betsy with a "Score one for the ninja!"

Warren shot his soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend a withering look, and remarked, "That shade of red really clashes with purple, Betsy."

"Oh? So says the blue man?"

"Now, now," chided Hank, "here I am afraid I really must side with our feathered friend — be he answering to Duck-Boy or Mr. Quackers or some other appropriate nom-de-guerre — and state emphatically that of all the hues that you could choose, the most harmonious and pleasing is blue. As I'm sure all of you knew."

"It's odd," Bobby mused. "Such a large grasp of the English language, and you're still a rotten poet."

"Perhaps the meter was a trifle sophisticated for your sophomoric tastes, Bobby— Ack!" Hank spit the snowball from his face, preparing to retaliate.

"Stay where you are, Hank, or I'll freeze you where y—"

"Robert," Betsy said, lowering her sunglasses to level him a piercing gaze, her own voice deathly sweet, "if the temperature of this pool drops even one degree, I can assure you that you will live **only** long enough to regret it."

For a moment, Bobby hovered indecisively, clearly weighing his options, then decided to stand down. For the moment. "Geez. I don't know how you live with her, Warren!"

"One of the many, many reasons, luv," she replied, "why I do live with him, and not with you. He does know 'how'."

"Ouch!" Hank yelped in only semi-sympathy towards Bobby, still pulling bits of snow from his fur. "Another point scored for the lovely lady with the lavender tresses. Enlighten us, Warren: is her rapier wit always so truculent?"

"Uhm, yeah, kind of truculent, I guess," Warren hedged.

"I think he's asking if she's always like this," Bobby translated.

Warren snorted from the poolside. "Worse!"

"Can't imagine how that's possible," Bobby grumbled, swimming away from piranha woman.

"Bobby, I've got bruises in places you can't even see."

"Warren!" Betsy exclaimed, sitting abruptly upright, her composure suddenly gone, and maybe even a faint blush on her cheeks. She glanced at Hank and Bobby, who were studiously minding their own business, only their smirks giving them away. She glared at Warren, who looked decidedly unrepentant with that wicked grin on his face, then leaned back in her pool chair, trying to salvage what little was left of her poise. "I'll get you for that, Quackers," she muttered. "You want bruises? I'll show you bruises."

"Was I complaining, Betts?"

"You will be."

* * *

"You probably should have invited one of those fire mutants," Bobby suggested helpfully, watching Hank and Warren attempting to light the barbecue.

"Do I know any fire mutants?" Warren wondered.

"Well, there's that Sunfire dude, although I guess he's usually in Japan. And now that I think of it, Pyro's dead. And he didn't hang out with us anyway. Whatever happened to that Magma girl? I'm thinking... Oh, I know, what about the Human Torch!"

"Technically, not a mutant," Warren replied, "and besides, I can't recall whether or not I've ever actually spoken to him before."

"That could be awkward, then," Bobby admitted. "Well, can't Dr. McCoy there get it going? All those years of school ought to be good for something."

"I'm a doctor, Bobby, not a—"

_Fwwhhoommmph!_

Hank and Warren both leapt backward as a gaseous fireball erupted from the barbecue. "Oh my stars and garters!" Hank exclaimed, quickly checking his fur for singeing.

"The barbecue is lit," Warren reported needlessly.

"Bring on the steaks and spices, my feathered friend — I'll do the honours. And provide me with an apron, if it's not too much trouble," Hank added as an afterthought, still warily on alert for any remaining sparks. "Alas, my beauteous blue fur is unfortunately flammable. But, conversely, I am relatively immune to sunburn, so one ought not complain."

Bobby sat up, with a puzzled look on his face. "Speaking of that... Hey, Warren, buddy, do you still tan? Do you get bluer, or do you just turn a kind of yucky brownish blue?"

Warren glanced dubiously at his skin. "Uh... good question." He seemed to be considering whether or not he should head back into the house for some sunscreen. "You know, Apocalypse didn't really go over that with me."

"Oh, oh, oh!" Bobby hollered, suddenly in the grip of inspiration and practically bursting with it. "I've got it – I know!"

"And god help us," Betsy sighed, "he's going to tell us."

Bobby, bouncing with eagerness, grabbed Warren by the shoulders and pronounced, "If you stay out in the sun too long... you'll look like Death warmed over! Aha ha hahaha!! Oh come on," he said, trying to shout down the groans, "**that** was hilarious! Admit it! The problem with you people is that you don't appreciate great comedic talent when you see it."

"Mmm, smells delicious, Hank," Betsy said, hovering over his shoulder. "Please tell me you're finished."

"Momentarily, my dear. If you would be so good as to arrange a table for this feast, although..." Hank cast a disapproving glance at the pool-side furnishings.

"What's wrong?"

"It lacks... je ne sais quoi. The famed Worthington opulence, mayhap?"

Warren snorted. "Sorry, but it's as opulent as it's going to get, Hank," he said, then reconsidered. "I suppose I could go all out and get you some napkins, but that's it."

Hank sighed. "I was actually thinking of something a little more aesthetic. Perhaps our resident Iceman would oblige us with an ice sculpture?"

"Sure!" Bobby bounced to his feet. "No peeking, though. And give me some room! The great artiste does not work well with an audience watching over his shoulder."

Warren shushed Betsy's skeptical commentary on the 'great artiste's' abilities.

Artist or not, Bobby was efficient. In only a few moments, he announced proudly, "Ta da!"

"What the hell is that?"

The ice sculpture was impressively large, the base made up of several figures collapsed on the ground, and at the top, a triumphant figure standing victoriously atop his fallen enemies.

"That? Well, here's Magneto," he said, pointing to one of the vanquished foes, "and I put in Apocalypse, too, right near the bottom—"

Warren leaned close, inspecting the detail. "I like it."

"—and over here is Lady Deathstrike. I don't know if she's still in action, but I thought we ought to include the ladies, too, you know, and she's got those funky hands. And then, just for good measure, we've got the mechanical contingent too, with this Sentinel's head. I thought it would take up too much room if I included the whole body, and it's not quite to scale—"

"It is truly wondrous, Bobby. You have quite outdone yourself. But I think the question weighing most upon our collective minds is 'who is that'?" Hank pointed to the stalwart hero at the top.

"Who's that?" Bobby echoed. "That's me! Who else would it be?"

They laughed.

"Come on!" he persisted. "Who else **could** it be?" He turned to admire his own handiwork, answering his own question. "There's only one man that **cool** – the Dashing Drake, Master of Ice and Destroyer of Evil-Doers."

"'Tis truly a wonder," Hank complimented rather hurriedly, almost but not quite drowning out Betsy's derisive snort, "but let us set aside further art appreciation until after we have attended to this repast!"

Bobby muttered something mostly indecipherable about 'philistines' but being hungry himself, he complied, still managing to cast a few admiring glances over his shoulder at his masterpiece.

* * *

By the time everyone had finished eating, the day was moving quickly towards sunset, and the four of them were stretched out comfortably in patio chairs. "Ohhh." Hank leaned back, patting his stomach with a look of pure contentment. "I have not had the pleasure of such an abundantly fine meal since Scott and Jean's wedding."

"Yeah, that was fun, wasn't it? Scott and Jean sure looked happy. It's just too bad it took them thirty years of angst and self-doubt before they finally realized they were meant for each other."

Warren laughed. "It was **hardly** thirty years, Bobby."

"It felt like it sometimes!" Bobby retorted. "It seemed like every other month, they'd be thinking up some new reason why they shouldn't be together, even though they fell for each other way back when they first met. And now Remy and Rogue seem to be heading down the same road." He threw up his hands in exasperation. "Don't let that happen to you, Mrs. Worthington!" he teased.

"Oh, you're so wrong, Bobby," Betsy retorted decisively. "I'm **never** going to be Mrs. Worthington — I can guarantee you that!" Both Bobby and Hank were taken aback, but Warren seemed undisturbed, even had a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips as if he knew exactly where the conversation was headed. "The question you should be asking is when Warren will consent to become Mr. Braddock."

Hank grinned over at his friend. "And just what does our warbling blue bird of happiness think of that?"

Warren stood up, glanced around and casually asked, "Anyone want dessert?"

"Oh man," Bobby moaned, "it sounds like we're settling in for another thirty-year wait, Hank— Hank?" He glanced around, finally realizing his friend had bounded over to the table and was already helping himself to various pastries. "I thought you were full!"

Hank shrugged. "I have an exceedingly fast metabolism."

"You've got a sweet tooth is what you've got." The dessert tray was being decimated at an alarming rate. Bobby leapt to his feet, rescuing the pastries from certain extinction. "Leave some for the rest of us!"

"Your sculpture is disintegrating," Hank noted, changing the subject, and, as Bobby turned to look, managed to snag yet another dessert from the tray.

It was sadly true. Though the day's heat had waned considerably, poor Magneto, Apocalypse & Co. were melting at a steady rate. "Poor little fellers," Bobby sighed. "I feel kinda responsible."

"You know, Bobby," Hank suggested, still picking through the dessert tray, before Bobby finally caught on and pulled it away, "if you ever wish to pursue a career outside the X-Men, you might consider supplying ice sculptures for parties, weddings — although you would possibly wish to refrain from the self-portraits in those instances."

"Hey, that's not a bad idea." Bobby put the dessert tray down far away from Hank, then folded his hand, producing a rectangular piece of ice, which he handed to Betsy. "My card. If you two want a truly spectacular centerpiece for **your** wedding – whatever surnames you decide to go with – give me a call."

Betsy glanced at the "card" with an amused twitch of her lips, and wordlessly passed it to Warren, who promptly put it into his drink.

"Hey!"

"Well, I might as well get some use out of it."

"Birdbrain."

"Ice..." Warren began to retaliate, then faltered. "...ice..." Cube? Berg? Tea? "Arrgh." He glowered at their amused expressions, settling for a less creative insult. "Twit."

"Whilst I cannot disagree with the sentiment, Warren, it behooves me to point out that of the two of you, you would more aptly be described as the 'twittering' one."

"Uh oh, Hank. He's got that 'angel of death' look in his eyes again—"

"All right, you two," Betsy interceded. Sort of. "No more ruffling his feathers."

Warren leapt to his feet. "What **is** it with the bad bird puns?!"

"Don't get owlish, Warren," Betsy soothed, mostly insincerely. "And besides, some of the puns were quite good."

"Hey, sorry, pal. We didn't mean to upset you," Bobby offered. "Let's just pick up our conversation where we left off — what were we talking about, Hank? Oh yeah, ice sculptures! — and Warren, we'll forget all about how you started beaking off at us like that— AHHHH!!"

Bobby ducked for cover, but it was too little, too late. He was caught by one ankle, lifted aloft, and dropped unceremoniously into the pool. And, to add insult to injury, as he sputtered back to the surface, Bobby distinctly heard Betsy calling out to Warren, "Remember, darling – Do Not Resuscitate."

* * *

Betsy had obviously been to one too many candle parties, because once the sun had set, she had happily pulled out all kinds of different candles – votives, tapers, ball candles and oil lamps – and lit them here and there along the balcony. Bobby wasn't sure what the big difference was between the various types, except that all were apparently meant for decoration only. Betsy had slapped his hand away when he tried toasting a marshmallow over one.

"I'd forgotten how beautiful New Mexico is," Bobby mused, looking up at the starlit sky. "So quiet. It's kind of nice. Far from the maddening crowd and all—"

"Madding," Hank prompted.

"Pardon?"

"Madding," he repeated. "It's 'Far from the Madding Crowd'. You were, I believe, attempting to quote the title of Thomas Hardy's book. Interestingly enough, that would qualify as a quote within a quote, as I believe that Thomas Hardy was in fact quoting a poem by Thomas Gray—"

"WhatEVER. My point was that it feels like we're the only people for miles."

"We are," Warren replied. "A few miles, anyway."

"Thanks for inviting us over today. You know, Warren, sometimes I kind of miss living out here, like we did way back in our Defender days. I didn't know you still had a place out here."

"Our Defender days... good gracious, Bobby, I have not thought of that in – excuse the pun – a blue moon. Warren, is this—"

"We're only a few miles off," he replied, anticipating the question. "It's the same piece of property, but the original building was trashed beyond repair. Besides, it didn't seem right to rebuild there."

"No," Bobby agreed a little glumly. "It didn't end well, did it?"

Beast shrugged philosophically. "It did and it didn't."

"Lives were lost—"

"And saved," Warren noted quietly.

"Yeah..."

"They were your friends?" Betsy asked quietly, taking Warren's arm and leaning against him. "Who were they? What became of them?"

"Val— well, actually her name was Brunnhilde. And Andromeda, and Isaac Christians. Our fellow Defenders," Hank mused, reciting the names easily from memory. "And a man called Interloper, and a madman aptly named Manslaughter. They all sacrificed their lives to defeat a former member who had... been possessed. Gone mad."

"She had a name too," Bobby prompted morosely.

"Yes. Moondragon." And then he relented somewhat. "Heather Douglas."

"But they were successful?" she asked. "Their lives were not sacrificed in vain?"

"No, they accomplished what they had set out to do. Nevertheless... six lives spent in the passing of one day. It is..." For once, Hank actually seemed at a loss for words.

"It's kind of a bummer," Bobby muttered.

"You never told me about this," Betsy murmured to Warren.

"I know. I'm sorry. I've always meant to..." He gave her a contrite look. "I don't know why, but when it was over, we walked away and almost never spoke of it again. I don't know why," he repeated slowly. "It was too important, too... personal. Does that make any sense? They've often been on my mind, especially when I'm out here."

"I am certain I speak for all of us in saying that we have tried to be worthy of what they did for us, but... it is difficult to accept a gift of such magnitude."

"It's hard to have been the ones who stayed behind," Warren agreed.

"I'm glad you did," she murmured.

"X-Men come and go and the team goes on, but – poof! – that was the end of the Defenders," Bobby sighed.

"It was never meant to be the driving force that the X-Men have become. Besides, what better note to end it on," Hank mused, "than with such valiant people?"

"Well," Bobby shrugged, "they say everything happens for a reason. Maybe the whole thing just kind of happened – the group got together – just for that purpose. To defeat Moondragon, when the time came, you know? Fate, or whatever. Maybe after that, there wasn't really any reason for us as Defenders any more..."

"After that, the indestructible Jean Grey walked back into our lives, and we all came together again in X-Factor."

"Yeah, that was kind of wacky, too, wasn't it?"

"Tumultuous would be my preferred choice of words, Bobby, but 'wacky' might also suffice."

"Hmm, that was around the time I joined the X-Men," Betsy commented. "You people were not too popular at that time, as I recall."

"Hah! They should talk! The X-Men were scraping the bottom of the barrel at that point," Bobby scoffed. "Obviously, their standards were slipping. I mean, they let **you** in, Betsy."

"Oh, ha ha. What makes you think your team roster was so impressive?"

"Well, for one, we weren't all buddy-buddy with Magneto. You gotta admit, that was big-league weirdness. Besides, we're the original X-Men—"

"Accept no substitutions," Hank interjected.

"—and we kick butt," Bobby said firmly, as if that was the only explanation that was needed. Taking a look at Betsy's skeptical expression, he tossed in a further argument. "We're like the 'Classic Coke' X-Men, and you guys were that weird 'New Coke' version. I'm telling you, Betsy, if you'd tried to audition for **us**, we wouldn't have even given you a second look!"

"Oh, I don't know," Warren demurred with an amused glint in his eye. "I might have looked twice. Maybe even three times."

"Thank you, darling. And I'd have made it worth your while, too," she said, winding an arm around his neck and pulling him into a long kiss.

"Oh, for lost opportunities," Hank laughed.

"Huh. Looks like they're making up for lost time. Break it up, already, you two! You need air to live!! That's better... sort of," he murmured, eyeing the embracing couple, who were alarmingly cuddly at the moment. Somehow, Betsy had found her way onto Warren's lap, and he didn't seem at all inclined to remove her. If they kept on like this, he and Hank would have to beat a hasty retreat.

"Mmm. Welcome to X-Factor, Ms. Braddock," Warren murmured. "I'm sure we can find a place for your talents."

"Hey! Don't I get to interview her too?!"

"When hell freezes over, Iceboy," she murmured dreamily, still giving Warren the eye.

"Ice**_man_**. And, by the way, that 'hell freezing over' stuff can be arranged— Oh, what's the use." He threw up his hands and got to his feet, walking towards the house. "I know when I'm not wanted. Goodnight, Betsy, Warren. Don't worry about us – we can find our way to our rooms."

Hank laughed, following Bobby's lead. "It is at times such as these when one realizes that discretion truly is the better part of valour. Goodnight to the both of you, and do try to get **some** sleep."

* * *

Betsy wandered slowly back and forth along the balcony, snuffing out the candle-light as she went, fully aware of Warren's eyes following her every move. Leaving a few candles burning nearby, she stretched out beside him in the patio chair, which was really not meant for more than one person at a time, unless you wanted to get cozy. Which was fine with her.

He stroked her dark hair. "Long day, Betts? Tired?"

"A good day," she smiled up at him. "Fun. I think I needed a vacation. A silly, do-nothing kind of day where we don't worry about 'evil mutants' or shadows or debts, where nobody is counting on us to make things right; a day when the world gets along fine on its own."

"A day where the bad guys just melt away?" he suggested, glancing at the mushy shadows of Bobby's former icy masterpiece.

"Exactly. You know," she mused, "Bobby would never believe it, but I do like the two of them very much. I'm glad they came."

"I'm glad you're glad," he murmured teasingly. "They've been my friends for a long time."

"Well," she said grudgingly, "I won't go so far as to say 'any friend of yours is a friend of mine', but I've always been fond of Hank. And Bobby was surprisingly un-obnoxious today."

Warren chuckled slightly, then began to laugh outright.

"What?"

"I think you spoke too soon. Look."

Betsy glanced up just as a flurry of soft, fluffy white snowflakes came floating down out of the darkness, a mini-blizzard remarkably centred precisely over the two of them. "That idiot, icy, show-off... punk!" she sputtered, brushing the snowflakes out of her eyes. Warren stretched his wing out over her, shielding her body from the snowstorm. "It's the middle of New Mexico! How on earth—"

"The pool," Warren guessed. "Lots of moisture there. Guess we should have drained it when we had the chance."

Already the storm was abating, and the snowflakes were melting almost in the air, but Betsy was not mollified. Somewhere inside the house, she knew Bobby was rolling around with glee at his little prank. "Well that does it," she growled firmly. "Friend of yours or not, tomorrow he dies!"

"Oh, let him live. You know he'll just come back to haunt us if you ice him," he said with a straight face, then burst into laughter at his own pun.

"Well, aren't you the funny boy," she replied, smirking despite herself. "I'm glad to see you finally managed to get at least one joke in."

"Me, too," he said, seeming enormously pleased with himself. "I guess we can finally call it a day."

"Not just yet. Aren't you forgetting something, luv?" she asked archly.

He raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Poolside, this afternoon?" she prompted. "I do believe I promised you a bruising you'd never forget..."

"Are you propositioning me, Ms. Braddock?" He seemed intrigued by the prospect. "Could be interesting..."

"Oh it will be, Quackers," she promised, blowing out the last of the candles. "It will be..."


End file.
